He would, in reality, be the regent, and Catharine would be so only in name.

She, the Queen of England, and he, king of this queen.

What a proud, intoxicating thought was that! And what plans, what hopes might not be twined with it! Five years of sway--was not that a time long enough to undermine the throne of the royal boy and to sap his authority?
Who could conjecture whether the people, once accustomed to the regency of the queen, might not prefer to remain under her sceptre, instead of committing themselves to this feeble youth?
The people must be constrained so to think, and to make Catharine, Thomas Seymour's wife, their reigning queen.
The king was sick unto death, and Catharine was, without doubt, the regent--perchance some day the sovereign queen.
Princess Elizabeth was only a poor princess, entirely without a prospect of the throne; for before her came Catharine, came Edward, and finally Mary, Elizabeth's eldest sister.

Elizabeth had not the least prospect of the throne, and Catharine the nearest and best founded.
Thomas Seymour pondered this as he traversed the apartments of the queen; and when he entered her presence, he had convinced himself that he loved the queen only, and that it was she alone whom he had always loved.

Elizabeth was forgotten and despised.